When southern gentry wins big at the Kentucky Derby, they shit their Depends and leave them on the floor.

In my life, I’ve had a number of strange opportunities fall into my lap. But ten years ago, on this day, I went to the Kentucky Derby. It was the whitest experience I’ve ever had.

It was 2014. My wife and I had been dating for a year or so. Her father told me he and some college friends had shared Derby tickets for decades. They were for a box, two rows back at Churchhill Downs. The finish line. And this year, it was her father’s turn. He gifted them to us.

Excited for the experience, we drove from Missouri to Kentucky to meet some friends. Others flew in from Connecticut, from California. I didn’t know what to expect. But one memory stands out.

It’s the last race, the grand finale. California Chrome wins. The crowd is awash in delight. We jointly slam our mint juleps together; my glass shatters. At the Derby, mixed drinks are served in cheap glassware stamped with its sponsors. The sticky feel of simple sugar and Woodford Reserve trickles down my arm. We laugh, and I head to the bathroom, leaving the celebration behind.

The restroom is a ghost town, but the hollow echoes of the crowd continue to pour inside. Everyone outside is cashing in their tickets. Some folks win big, a lot of folks lose it all. All on that last race.

I step into the nearest stall to do my business. That’s when I hear the slamming of the stall door next to me. Then, followed by someone struggling with their belt. Their penny loafers clatter onto the bathroom floor. All followed by a wet sound.

Thwack.

It was his adult diaper.

The door next to me opens once more. Another man enters. The two chat a bit and shuffle about. The walls in the stall creek a bit as they fumble about.

From the stall, an older man with a gravely voice rises up and says, “That’s another $100k in the bank thanks to that fucking jockey”.

Then, a crumpling sound. The man had brought a plastic grocery sack for his second diaper. It falls to the floor.

“Mom is going to lose it,” the other one says. He urges towards the toilet, unzips, and begins to relieve himself. The older man pulls up his pants, and leans against the walls of the stall to put his loafer back on.

I wait.

Before exiting my stall, I took photographic evidence of the encounter. I knew this would be something I’d want to remember. Exiting, I walk up to the sink and mirrors, washing my hands. Both my stall and the one beside it are in full view. I lingered a bit; I wondered what these two men looked like.

They both come shuffling out. One has rosy pink cheeks and a collegiate haircut. He must have been 20 years old at best. The young man walks towards me, shares a friendly smile, and turns the water on.

The older man, dressed in what could only be described as southern gentility, stands beside him, nods, and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his sportscoat.

I join my wife and friends and share the highlights of what just happened. We laughed a bit. I’m handed a new drink. Finishing, we stumbled out to catch our ride.

As someone who grew up in near poverty with a single working mother, this memory has stuck with me. I couldn’t even imagine having that much money to wager-much less win-at 20 years old. I’ve been incredibly fortunate over my 46 years, but never like that. Never from the point of extreme privilege.

Now, when I crumple up our youngest’s diaper into the pail, I am oft reminded of the man’s Depends at the Kentucky Derby. I share a glance with my wife, she smiles at me knowingly.

I close the door of the diaper pail.

Thwack.